


What Is and Isn't Said

by NewWorldSymphony



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Bad Jokes, Canon-Typical Violence, Deception, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Introspection, Thievery, dad jokes, in that order, this is just mag making his dad jokes but then it gets real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 08:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWorldSymphony/pseuds/NewWorldSymphony
Summary: Mag and Peter pull off a heist with only a few minor hiccups, but as they’re going through their loot something about Peter starts to bother Mag.





	What Is and Isn't Said

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists because I will never be over angel of brahma thanks  
> bonus easter egg: try to spot the TAZ reference

“That was quick thinking back there,” Mag said as he absentmindedly shifted around the spoils in front of him, before picking up a necklace. He shot over a glance at Peter when he responded only with silence. Well. Mag could wait. He turned his attention back to the string of pearls in his hand.

He ran his thumb over the surface of one of the pearls before holding them up to the light, carefully observing their luster and shape. They were either real or a good enough fake to pass as it, so a win either way. He moved onto the next item in the haul, a light blade, flicking the sensor and watching its bright edge stretch out into a full luminous sword.

Really, all ornament. They had plasma-blades and blasters nowadays, both of which worked far better, but some people really liked living out a hyper-specific outdated tech dream with them.

Mag shook his head a little before he put it down and spoke up again, focusing again on Peter.

“Really,” he said for emphasis, “ _Seriously_ , it was a damn good scheme. I thought we were toast when the fireworks wouldn’t light and we’d never get a suitable distraction. But you pulled it off.”

Mag sat cross-legged in front of their spoils, which were all splayed in neat piles on the stiff greying carpet, square in the center of the temporary lodgings of their hotel room (but when wasn’t their housing temporary?). Peter, meanwhile, sat with his legs dangling off his bed, fidgeting his fingers every which way as he tried to solve the novelty puzzle lock on a purse he’d nabbed.

It should have been a piece of cake, there weren’t the encryption codes or lockouts after a certain number of tries (or heaven forbid the data-wipe programs!) that were all the usual given headaches to digital ones. But it was still proving quite the stubborn customer for Peter. Namely because he was trying to avoid breaking the thing like they normally would. Intact, the purse could fetch a nice chunk of creds all on its own.

But Peter took a moment to look up from it and pause as Mag repeated himself and shot Peter a beaming grin.

“Well, can’t say I had total confidence in the moment,” Peter replied, his chest puffing up a bit and returning Mag’s expression with his usual sly toothy smile. “…but at the very least it all worked out in the end.”

“Damn right it did. Well, there’s just one thing I’ve got to say about tonight other than that. I mean, two things. First is that the frogs were brilliant, I thought you were out of your literal mind when you told me to hold on and you just wandered out into the garden. But second…” Mag said with a harsh edge to his tone, like he was about to chastise Peter for something.

Peter leaned forward, eyes wide. Mag looked away for a moment, before standing up and walking over to the bed to sit beside Peter, who looked even more concerned now.

Mag couldn’t remember the last time he had scolded Peter, but it certainly couldn’t be since their first few years together. There had been times, yes, when he had been reprimanded for leaving junk in his pockets when Mag did the wash, or for a risky or unnecessary move when they were making a heist.

But Mag was hardly a disciplinary figure. So why the shift? Mag tried to lean into that confusion, to take Peter off guard. Misdirection was one of the tenants of a con, after all. Lesson one, in fact.

“Was it…” Mag said and paused for dramatic effect, looking off blankly at the wall before turning back to Peter with a solemn expression on his face. When he spoke again, his voice went from soft to uproariously loud in only a brief moment.

“…Was it something they ate? How’d you get them to burp like that? You had to have poured soda in their pond! It was just like…” he paused and made a guttural, excessive throat sound that could only be said to resemble a belch if you were really stretching it. It was really far, far worse. But Mag kept laughing and doing it, even as Peter gave him a completely repulsed and exasperated look.

“Really? I thought you were serious! That’s just what black bheki frogs sound like. I mean, I guess if you really stretch it does kind of sound like-“

Mag started up again, even deeper and more drawn out this time, stance wide and strained, his hand pressed to his stomach like he was having real indigestion.

Peter tried and failed to stifle a smile and lightly elbowed his arm.

“Come on. Grow up.”

“Well one of us has to be the kid around here,” Mag replied in a fake sullen tone, “So I’ve taken it upon myself if you’re going to be the breadwinner for this household.”

“So, you admit you’ve lost your touch, old man? Are you finally willing to admit I’m number one in the thieving department?”

“Nope. No way. I’m afraid you’re still stuck in second place, which is still pretty damn good, mind you, but I’m just going to lie back and let you do my work for me, cause it’s easier that way. And you won’t suspect a thing ‘cause you’ll be trying to prove yourself the whole time.”

“I think that’s called ‘resting on your laurels.’ You’ll get out of practice if you let me do all the heavy lifting. And besides, if you’re trying to con me into doing more work for you… doesn’t telling me about it kind of ruin that whole scheme?” Peter said, sounding a bit patronizing himself now. But he grinned through it, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth.

“Aw hush. I was just trying to pay you a compliment, learn to take it with grace,” Mag muttered and ruffled Peter’s head of black hair.

“Alright. I _thought_ I was, but alright.”

All banter aside, Mag really meant it. Really. Might even be willing to concede the title one day, watching him. Sometimes there’d be moments Mag would just try to fluff up his ego and give a pat on the back, but here, now? That had been one of the highest stake heists he’d been this close to messing up.

And the kid had solved all of it with frogs.

The heist was at the biggest party of upper crust folks that could stand to be planet-side. Still nothing like the elite on New Kinshasa, but still. They had enough sparkling jewels, flashy new synthetic polymer jackets, and tech in hoards to make it worth risking a deft hand at.

Of course the fact they lived planet-side meant they were also perfectly used to people going after their stuff and how exactly to avoid said theft. They were constantly tested and thus all the more cynical and hard.

So not the easiest of marks even on their low security days. And tonight, with all the shady businesspeople milling about and making backhand deals? There were more bodyguards than guests.

It meant they had their work cut out for them. But Mag was the best thief there was, and Peter his protégé. They were always up to a challenge. There were, however, hurdles.

First was managing to scrounge up passably acceptable formalwear to at least _almost_ look like they were acceptable rabble, even if not the most fashionable. It was an ordeal in itself, trying to find luxurious clothes when the vast majority of citizens wandered the streets in whatever plain, utilitarian rags they could manage, them included.

Second was the cameras positioned around almost every square inch of the damn manor, with the exception of the grand ballroom. So they had to do all their pickpocketing there or in the parking lot. And while car-jacking was certainly a more appealing option, it was a bit hard for it to be truly viable when anything worth even a passing glance was on the guests themselves that night.

Last was the aforementioned bodyguards. Ranging from big buff types looking crammed into their suits, weapon bulges straining the definition of concealed, to fashionable ones that looked like any old party guest until you caught an unusual glimmer in their eye, a telltale sign of a military-grade THEIA implant.

Suffice to say, there was good reason to fear getting fried to a crisp in seconds at one wrong gesture (though, really, was that any different than what they were used to under the GUARDIAN system?) or picking the wrong pocket and winding up missing an arm.

But they managed. They worked around all of them.

Mag had a friend in the resistance who had an eye for those picky sorts of fashion-related things, and a hand to match it. Just by supplying them the fabrics and a few creds, they had whipped up some beautiful ensembles for the two of them in only a few days. All the unnecessary flaps and asymmetrical shapes that were the rage recently.

Mag even accessorized with a few rings he hadn’t gotten off to pawning just yet.

He almost scoffed when he saw the finished look in the mirror. A facsimile of a man he wasn’t, and never wanted to be. But he looked sharp, or at least sharp enough.

Next were the cameras, which were easy. They only planned to steal in the ballroom, where no one expected anyone to even _attempt_ such a thing with so many eyes (and blasters) all around. But really, it was safety in numbers and the lack of attention. They only had to blend, blend, and make up for it with their methods. Which, coincidentally, was also how they’d managed the bodyguards.

By being the most chatty, friendly, and unremarkable guests there. Not sneaking around, but instead by making names for themselves, milling about and getting to know people in the usual ways the rich did, by flaunting their wealth to each other, in the usual conversations around property holdings, trade, and capital.

So tonight, Mag had an accent. A thick one, at that. And he was nobility. A Baron from the Outer Rim, Augustus Parsons, and Peter was his son, Theodore. He had stopped for quick visit en route to a business meeting.

And he absolutely loved chatting anyone’s ear off who would have him about his terraforming business on Eris and Harmonia.

This was all so that once the distraction set in and the hall was set ablaze with the roaring burn of fireworks along the grand staircase, they were just more faces in the crowd shocked, stunned, and desperately trying to get away.

In reality, they were the first to pilfer through unattended bags and toss whatever small trinkets they could get their hands on into their pockets.

It was all going swimmingly until the aforementioned fireworks of course wouldn’t light.

But Peter had made short work of it. Have a ruined scheme? Move past it, improvise. Rule number one of the con! That’s what Mag had taught Peter, of course, and what he had whispered to Pete moments after they failed to light, but still. The fact Peter had solved it on the fly, and so beautifully? It was just stunning.

Hell, the frogs worked even better than the fireworks probably would have. Total mayhem. With everyone running every which way trying to avoid their corrosive slime, bodyguards all tied up in shooting at freaking frogs of all things to try to save their employer’s multi-million cred dresses from getting ruined… It was a complete shit show. They had made out with more than they had ever expected.

Not to mention it was pretty funny to watch all of those stuffy self-important bastards lose themselves over just a few dozen little amphibians.

Especially when those amphibians kept croaking up a storm in what could only be described as a chorus of belches. Simply spectacular.

Reminiscing on it just made it all the more spectacular, and made Mag all the more proud of Peter.

He felt his gaze soften a little as he looked at the boy, all serious in deep concentration next to him. After their little scrap, Peter had turned his attention back to the puzzle, eyebrows all scrunched up.

Watching him, Mag was overwhelmed with a concern his praises earlier hadn’t really sunk in, that their little sarcastic battle of the wits had undermined his earlier compliments. He didn’t want that to be the case, didn’t want to leave it unsaid. So he tried to say it again, this time with more sincerity.

“All jokes aside, I really mean it. You’re pretty incredible, Pete.”

“Well… thanks,” Peter said and scooped up the puzzle again, looking just a bit embarrassed from all the attention. He’d have his cocky moments for sure, but genuine, deserved praise like that still got to him.

All that made Mag all the more proud. Looking at him, he could hardly believe he had helped make those skills what they were today, had shaped him from petty thievery and a slightly quicker hand than most to… this. Looking at him now, he really believed he’d be better than him one day. Maybe even the best there was.

Once, he had just been a little kid. Sure, a sharp, scrappy one, but still. It was strange to think it, looking at him now. But what made it even more difficult to believe was his attitude.

Serious as ever, even in a joyous, happy moment like this. Even when told the most ridiculous jokes. Maybe he was just too old for them… But Mag knew he himself wasn’t.

He found himself all the more in need of those light moments, having never had a chance to experience them enough when he was younger. From his first memories of his many, many years on Brahma, it had always just been a constant struggle to survive.

Mag had to grow up too fast, never had the chance to wallow in that kind of childish light-heartedness he saw in all the storybooks and films. He had difficulty even believing it might still exist where they were made, solar systems away.

He remembered the corny humor of Menchie, the mischievous sea monkey, a horrible retro cartoon that was the only damn thing ever playing on the underground’s airwaves. The idyllic world where she could get away with sassing off to policemen and graffitiing coral reef billboards seemed so far-removed from reality, it was practically fantasy to him.

And I mean, it was, in part. She was a goddamn sea monkey for crying out loud. She lived in the ocean. But the idea of how she lived, the way her world was set up that allowed her peaceful moments, that allowed her to make mistakes, that didn’t have her fighting to survive or getting brutalized for pulling stupid pranks…

Once he realized it did have some grain of truth, that it must have represented something about the people who made it originally, he envied it. And never getting to experience that made him want to recreate it all the more: crude, irreverent humor.

And stupid jokes. Really, really dumb ones. The stupidest he could come up with.

Recalling a time in his life he had never even had, had never existed. But oh how he wished he had.

Instead he remembered his first slit throat. He remembered stealing another kid’s food and finding his corpse the next day. And that was all _before_ they installed the Guardian Angel System.

No, he wasn’t young when it was set up. But he wasn’t old either, and he still remembers the quaking fear that ran through him when he saw a scorching, fizzling crater next to him for the first time. He avoided time and time again, but he couldn’t forget that first time.

He remembers the stench of others not so lucky. Again and again, so many burning, smoldering shapes that had been people only moments before and then just like that… gone.

The angel’s swords struck sinners down without warning. Without hesitation.

And the unholy sucker never ran out of them.

That was life on Brahma. But really, it didn’t mean there wasn’t time to crack jokes and enjoy a little levity, once the crosshairs were off your back. Hell, some days it felt like humor was the only way Mag could cope with it. He didn’t know how Peter managed without it.

Mag had poked fun at it before but… really, staring at Peter’s scrunched up face, his pointed seriousness, it was a little heart-breaking. It was _unfair_ that Mag was the more childish one between the two.

“Say, uh, Pete...” Mag began, trailing off for a bit before picking up after Peter gave a little “mhm?” in reply. Mag straightened up and glanced at the ceiling lined with cracks before turning back to the boy, voice now more confident.

“…You do know by this point you can joke around with me, right? I know I framed all this as taking you under my wing and everything, acting as a mentor but… I won’t think any less of you or your abilities if you act more like a kid. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. You can be a little less serious every now and again, if you want.”

Peter looked surprised, eyes widening, but he continued to stare down at the puzzle. To fiddle with it, not responding at first, though his lips were parted as if he were preparing to speak. Mag gave him the time he needed, looking off again at the still remaining piles of bounty to sort through.

Mag knew a bit of what Peter had gone through, had heard it from him himself. But he hoped that what Peter experienced had nothing compared to his own youth, that there weren’t any shadowy corners that even partially matched his own.

But he already knew such an idea was an impossibility. It was probably why Peter struggled so much now, why he occasionally had a detached, flattened affect. Mag knew there were some things Peter wouldn’t share, even with him. Some things he’s hinted at, alluded to, but never elaborated on. But even the barest traces are enough. When he finally did speak, that much was made crystal-clear.

“I don’t know. I just don’t ever remember being like that. I don’t know if I…. can,” Peter said with hesitation, staring down at the floor. His fingers now still in his lap, no longer fiddling with the lock.

And now Mag felt bad. He had made Peter question that lack, made him realize it was something he had missed out on, had never gotten to experience. Even if he had said it trying to get him to feel like he could… well, now it just had the opposite effect, highlighting what there was an absence of, only firmly marking out, this is what you have been through, this is what has defined you: Brahma, in all of its harshness and seriousness has squandered your chances at even being able to chuckle.

Mag sat there, watching Peter’s blank expression until he couldn’t stand it anymore and looked away. Soon enough the clacking, clattering noises of the lock start up again, and Mag lets himself linger in his own thoughts.

Mag wished that Peter hadn’t gone through any of it. That he hadn’t missed out on the halcyon childhood of ease that was taken for granted in other parts of the universe. Hell, he wishes he _himself_ had gotten a chance to. What sort of different life might he have led, what other passions might he have had, somewhere distant, another planet with real opportunities, with real freedom?

He wishes he could have lived there. And made and grown out of stupid jokes.

He stretched his mind, trying to imagine another life, a different life. Maybe he’d actually have a residence, a place to call his own. Full of things- what things would he even keep, if he had the chance?  He strained and strained, but it was hard to picture. Maybe a collection of curiosities. Not just the ones that he didn’t think could fetch them money. Maybe Martian artifacts. He’d always been fascinated at the possibility for intelligent alien life, and they were, impossibly, proof of them.

Looking down at evening suit he still hadn’t changed out of yet, it also had him wonder about clothes as well. He had never put much care into appearances, was hardly a vain man. But he wondered what he would choose to wear, given the chance.

What would be nice were a pick of shoes. Functional or formal, somber black, deep blue, or canary yellow to match his eyes… he liked the thought of that. Of being able to wear any he could think up, not just the dingy busted ones he’d worn every day for the past few years. They were sturdy and silent, sure, but he couldn’t deny they were sorely lacking in the aesthetics department. If he had to pick one word to describe them, it would be ‘clunky.’

If he had a home, could keep hold of things he’d like… those were the first, silly things that gripped him, that he’d like different. There was maybe allure in stability, but he struggled with coming up with more concrete details. What about a job, what sort of planet, what sort of people would he be surrounded with, would make up his life?

Regardless of his difficulty coming up with the other things, though, one longing remained. He wanted somewhere he knew he could always stay. Somewhere he could call home. No matter what material things he did or did not have, it was that idea that called out to him most.

But there was another feeling that took hold and surprised him with its intensity. He also found himself unable to picture it all without Peter. His vision of the world expanded to include him, and he began to wonder what their relationship would have been like, if he had mentored him in some other craft instead. Wood carving? Painting? Engineering? Who cares what?

Mag was proud of his thieving, proud of what he’s built up in himself as well as in Peter. But he still knew it was a skill honed out of necessity, out of survival. Even amidst all his pride, he couldn’t forget that, couldn’t help but feel robbed of a choice.

And know Peter was also robbed of it, robbed of other passions, of hope, of stability…

Of lightness. Humor. A childhood.

Knowing this, Mag tried to imagine he could have heard light-hearted, silly things slipping right out of his pointy grin. Of them around a table with a hearty, bountiful feast before them, Peter’s eyes sparkling as he shares about some inconsequential story from his day. Of an easy life, a simple one, led together and with its own small contentments. It would lack all the thrill they got to experience now in their day-to-day. So despite the constant struggle they found themselves in now… because of that, Mag questioned if he or Peter would even be happy.

They both lived for adventure, lived for the chase. And although Mag was getting on in his years and beginning to long for an end to all the high octane heists… Peter certainly wasn’t.

He sincerely doubted if he would be able to hold him back from it, felt terrible even considering it. He knew Peter could accomplish amazing things, out there with those fingers and brain of his.

But still… there was something that stirred within him, picturing them walking down some sun-lit street together, the strings of some street musician in the distance matching the tempo of their feet on cobblestone. For once not watching over their shoulders, not scanning the crowds for an easy mark, not ogling easy escape routes or spots to hide in if they found themselves needing to-

Just pointing out eyecatching displays in storefront windows, the wild gestures and stunts of street performers, or striking pieces of the landscape that caught their eye as they strolled by, side-by-side.

Mag wanted to tell Peter for a moment, wanted to share this other imaginary world spinning through his mind. He opened his mouth, and began to speak, fully intending at first to say it.

But what came out, what he really says winds up being completely different.

He does what he always does best.

He says,

“I know it might be hard for you to picture now but… but I’m sure you did. You did have that goofiness once, with your father.  I know you did, with a guy like that? Living where you did? There’s no way you didn’t. I bet you used to make all the nasty potty humor in the world, all the damn time. Enough that even your dad would have wanted to wash out your mouth. You’ll get it back one day.”

And then he makes another stupid joke.

“…If you ever manage to get all the splinters out of your butt from the stick up it.”

More false nostalgia, more phony throwbacks to times Mag never had and the kid he never was. More stupid, stupid humor.

But Peter cracks a hesitant little smile.

“Yeah. Maybe one day…. but do you really have to make it be so lowbrow? That’s why I make such a fuss. I do have a sense of humor, Mag, just not so… bathroom-based.”

Mag laughed back now, clapping his hand on Peter’s back again and again.

“Oh, don’t be like that. Ragging on your old man like that. You know what’s really lacking here, in this room? Respect, that’s what I need.”

Peter snorts, and seemed ready to make a comeback, but a loud popping noise sounded out and his eyes went wide as the lock he’d been fiddling with suddenly snapped open in his hands. He had finally bested the purse, its blue silken lining now revealed, the stack of creds standing out in contrast.

“Awww, atta boy! Shame it’s just creds in there. But pickers can’t be choosers. Not lock pickers _or_ nose pickers.”

“…It’s beggars. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

Peter shot him another look and another half-smile and Mag just couldn’t help but feel so content with himself. But then Mag looked out for a moment, out through the window, out over that urban sprawl of cramped building after building, teetering and clustering all around each other.

And he wondered if one day, after they finished it, after they take down the GUARDIAN system, if that with enough creds there’d be a chance they could get out of there.

But hell. He needed to stop imagining distant what-ifs, and tackle things one at a time, now, in the present.

Ending the extra-judiciary slaughter machine had to take priority, needed to for his time to have meant anything.

For his lies to mean anything.

He had worked so long to try to take it down, and leaving it would mean abandoning that, giving up. And hell, this was _his_ world, where he had been born and raised. He shouldn’t have to leave it, shouldn’t have to be chased off and search for greener pastures. No matter how ruined the soil, he’d replant and start it new again.

But still. He speculated. And he wondered if Pete ever dreamed of different skylines too.

Mag watched as Peter sorted the creds by amount, scowling as the numbers came up painfully short for the amount of effort he’d put in. But it’d been his prize, his winnings, his reward. And Mag couldn’t be more amazed, for his brains and his cunning and all the rest wrapped up in that little head of his having earned them.

And just fondness for the ever-serious little guy.

“ …I’m proud of you, Pete,” he said after a moment, wrapping his arm around him and pulling him in for a half shoulder-squeeze, half-hug. Peter’s expression shifted from a scowl to a grin faster than a heartbeat.

“…Thanks, Mag.”

Looking at that expression, Mag wondered if he had managed to keep some of that light alive in Peter anyway. He hoped he had.

But he also couldn’t forget. It was a flame kept stoked on rotten kindling, that let off noxious fumes. So many moments of lightness, so many smiles Mag preserved were only through blocks of dark, foul wood.

Through so, so many lies.

But just like the thieving, just like the life here on Brahma, despite all their faults, Mag didn’t know how to give it up.

There was only one way he knew how to show his love: through lies.

He didn’t trust himself alone, the plain and simple truth, to be enough.

He tried to comfort himself that they weren’t whole, total lies. More like embellished truths.

But hell. Who was he kidding? Even he didn’t buy it. They still stunk like lies all the same.


End file.
